Lord Percy sees my fall!
—Chevy Chase
Two days after, Miss Gardner calling, found Mrs. Martindale alone in the drawing-room, and pretty well again. The project for the party was now fully developed, and it was explained to Violet with regrets that she was unable to share it, and hopes that Theodora and her brother would not fail to join it.
‘Thank you, I believe Captain Martindale will be at Windsor; he will be on guard next week.’
‘Ah! that is provoking. He is so valuable at this kind of thing, and I am sure would enjoy it. He would meet some old schoolfellows. You must use your influence to prevent him from being lazy. Guardsmen can always get leave when they think it worth while.’
‘Perhaps if Theodora wishes to go, he may manage it; but I am afraid it is not likely that he will be able.’
‘You will trust us for taking care of our dear Theodora,’ said Miss Gardner; ‘we know she is rather high-spirited, and not very fond of control. I can quite enter into your feelings of responsibility, but from my knowledge of her character, I should say that any sense of restraint is most galling to her. But even if we have not the pleasure of Captain Martindale’s company, you may fully reckon on our watching over her, myself in especial, as a most dear younger sister.’
‘Is your party arranged?’ asked Violet.
‘Yes, I may say so. We hope for Mrs. Sedley and her daughters. Do you know them? Charming people whom we met in Paris.’
Violet was not acquainted with them, and tried to find out who were the rest. They seemed to be all young ladies, or giddy young wives, like Mrs. Finch herself, and two or three foreigners. Few were personally known to the Martindales; Lord St. Erme was the only gentleman of their own set; and Violet could not smile, as her visitor expected, on hearing how he had been enticed by hopes of meeting Miss Martindale.
Jane Gardner perceived the disapprobation. ‘Ah! well,—yes. One cannot but own that our dear Theodora’s spirits do now and then make her a little bit of a flirt. It is the way with all such girls, you know. I am sure it was with my sister, but, as in her case, marriage is the only cure. You need not be in the least uneasy, I assure you. All will right itself, though a good deal may go on that startles sober-minded people like us. I could condole with you on the charge, but you will find it the only way not to seem to thwart her. Violet thought it best to laugh, and talk of something else.
‘Then I depend on you for the cream of our party,’ said Miss Gardner, taking leave.
‘I cannot tell whether Captain Martindale can come,’ said Violet, somewhat bewildered by the conversation.
‘Is that girl a nonentity, or is she a deep genius?’ said Jane to herself as she walked home. ‘I cannot make her out. Now for the trial of power! If Theodora Martindale yields to the Fotheringhams now, and deserts Georgina, it will be a confirmation of all the absurd reports. As long as I have it to say the Martindale family are as intimate as ever, I have an answer for Lady Fotheringham, and if Mark is smitten with her, so much the better. I hope Percy Fotheringham may be properly rewarded for his presumption and ill-nature. The sooner they quarrel the better. I will send Theodora a note to put her on her mettle.’
The note arrived while Percy was spending the evening in Cadogan-place, and Theodora talking so happily that she grudged the interruption of opening and reading it.
‘DEAREST THEODORA,—One line further to secure you, though I told Mrs. Martindale of our plans. She would make no promises, but we reckon on your independence of action, at least. “Should auld acquaintance be forgot?”
‘Yours affectionately,
‘J. GARDNER.
‘P.S.—Mrs. Martindale looked very well. I hope she will have no recurrence of faintings.’
‘From Jane Gardner,’ said Theodora; ‘only to put me in mind of the picnic. Will you go, Arthur?’
‘I never was more glad to be on her Majesty’s service. What an abominable bore it would be!’
‘That is what gentlemen always say of picnics,’ said Theodora.
‘Not at all,’ said Percy. ‘A real country party of merry happy people, knowing each other well, and full of genuine honest glee, is one of the most enjoyable things that can be.’
‘That it is!’ cried Violet. ‘There was the day we went up Skiddaw, with no one but our cousins and Mr. Fanshawe, and dined on the mountain in sight of the valley of St. John; and the rain came on, and Mr. Fanshawe sat all the time holding an umbrella over Annette and the pigeon-pie.’
‘That was worth doing,’ said Percy; ‘but for a parcel of fine ladies and gentlemen to carry the airs and graces, follies and competitions, born in ball-rooms and nursed in soirees, out into pure country air and daylight, is an insult to the green fields and woods.’
‘That is a speech in character of author,’ said Theodora.
‘In character of rational being.’
‘Which you would not have made if the party had not been Georgina Finch’s.’
‘I had no notion whose it was, or anything about it.’
‘It is for her birthday, Tuesday,’ said Violet. ‘They are to have a steamer to Richmond, walk about and dine there; but I should not think that it would be very pleasant. Mrs. Bryanstone had one of these parties last year to Hampton Court, and she told me that unless they were well managed they were the most disagreeable things in the world; people always were losing each other, and getting into scrapes. She declared she never would have another.’
‘Mrs. Bryanstone has no idea of management,’ said Theodora.
‘I know who has less,’ said Arthur. ‘Your Georgina will let every one take their chance, and the worse predicaments people get into the louder she will laugh.’
‘There is nothing so intolerable as a woman who thinks herself too fashionable for good manners,’ said Percy.
‘Is any one waiting for an answer?’ asked Violet.
‘There is none,’ said Theodora. ‘They know I mean to go.’
‘To go!’ exclaimed all three, who had thought the question settled by Arthur’s refusal.
‘Yes, of course; I go with Georgina.’
‘With Mark Gardner, and the king of the clothes-brushes, and all their train, in moustaches and parti-coloured parasols!’ cried Percy. ‘Theodora, I thought you were a sensible woman.’
‘I am sorry if I forfeit that claim to your regard.’
‘Well, if I was your mother! However, it is devoutly to be hoped that it may rain.’
He then changed the conversation, and no more passed on this subject till, as he wished her good night, he said, in a low voice, ‘Think better of it, Theodora.’
‘My mind is made up,’ was the proud reply. In a few seconds he called Arthur to him on the stairs. ‘Arthur,’ he said, ‘if your sister is set on this wrong-headed scheme, at least don’t let her go with no one to look after her. Let her have some respectable person with her, merely for propriety’s sake. She fancies me prejudiced, and we have agreed to dispute no more on the woman’s goings on; but you have the keeping of her now.’
‘I wish Mrs. Finch was at Jericho, and Theodora after her!’ exclaimed Arthur, petulantly; ‘they will worry my wife to death between them.’
‘Then Theodora had better go home,’ said Percy, soberly.
‘No, no; we can’t do without her. She takes good care of Violet, and is very attentive and useful, and I can’t have Violet left alone. If we could but get her down off her high horse, and drive that impudent woman out of her head!—if you can’t, no one else can.’
‘It is very unfortunate,’ said Percy. ‘There is so much generous feeling and strong affection to prompt her resistance, that it is hard to oppose her, especially as I do believe there is no worse than folly and levity in this friend of hers. I wish these occasions would not arise. Left to herself these people would soon disgust her but for her own sake we must interfere, and that keeps up her partisanship.’
‘What is to be done?’ was Violet’s disconsolate beginning, as soon as she could see Arthur alone.
‘Take it easy’—words which she had taught herself to regard as a warning that she was doleful. ‘Never mind; if Theodora is so pig-headed as to rush into this scheme, it is no concern of yours. All you have to do is to take care not to be worried.’
Violet had regained a cheerful voice. ‘If you were going with her, it would not signify.’
‘It would signify pretty much to me to be bored with all that riff-raff. One would think Theodora bewitched.’
‘There is hardly any one of our acquaintance.’
‘No, the lady has dropped pretty much in the scale.’
‘I wish I knew what your father and mother would think of it.’
‘They would hate it as much as we do, but they could not prevent it. Nobody can stop Theodora when once she has the bit between her teeth. As I told Percy, if he can’t, ‘tis past all power. I wonder if he thinks by this time he has caught a Tartar?’
‘Did he call you to speak about it?’
‘Yes; to say I must by no means let her go without a respectable female to look after her.’
‘I don’t know these ladies; but if Mrs. Finch would ask Mrs. Bryanstone, she is so good-natured that I dare say she would go.’
‘That would be the most tolerable way of doing it; but I would lay you anything you please that nothing but unmitigated Finch will content her.’
‘And that is worse than no one.’
‘I wish some stop could be put to it. It is worse than Percy knows. She can’t speak to a man without flirting, and we shall have her turning some poor fellow’s head, like Wingfield’s. I don’t think it is respectable!’
‘It is very strange, so good and religious as she is.’
‘Where is the use of her religion if it does not bring down her pride or cure her obstinacy? If it would, I should see some good in the rout she makes about going to church and teaching dirty children.’
‘Oh! Arthur, dear, don’t say that.’
‘It is the truth, though.’
‘I think,’ said Violet, diffidently, ‘that some day the good will conquer the rest. Some day she will feel these things to be wrong and strive against them.’
‘Do you mean that she does not know it is wrong to be as wilful and proud as Lucifer?’
‘I do not think she knows she has those tendencies.’
Arthur laughed and shook his head. ‘One learns one’s faults as one grows older, you know,’ continued Violet, ‘and she is so very kind. Think of her giving up all going out in the evening to stay with me; and you don’t know how she waits on baby and me. She is so grand and noble, that kindness from her is delightful, and her face when it softens is so like you! Some book says that high natures have the most trouble with their faults.’
‘Then hers ought to be high indeed.’
Violet began the day by telling Arthur that his sister would go to make arrangements with Mrs. Finch, and asked him to tell her of their decision before he returned to Windsor that morning.
‘Our decision! What do you mean!’
‘Don’t you remember about Mrs. Bryanstone?’
‘Oh! if that is to be done, you must say it. Ladies must manage their own visiting affairs. I don’t understand chaperons and stuff.’
‘Arthur, you don’t mean me to speak?’
‘If it is to be done at all, it is woman’s work, and I see no use in it. She will toss her head, and only be more resolved on her own way.’
‘Oh, Arthur, one moment! Did you not say it ought to be done?’
‘Of course it ought; but it is of no use, and if you are wise, you will not tease yourself.’
‘But you said Percy insisted on it.’
‘So he did, but if he cannot tackle her himself, I am sure we can’t. I’ll have nothing to do with it—it is no affair of mine.’
‘Then, am I to let her alone?’
‘As you choose. I wish she would hear reason, but it is not worth bothering yourself for, when it is of no use.’
‘What do you wish me to do? I wish I knew—’
He shut the door behind him, and Violet tried to recover from her dismay. Thankful would she have been for commands not to interfere; but to be left to her own judgment was terrible when she knew that his true opinion coincided with hers. How could she hope to prevail, or not to forfeit the much-prized affection that seemed almost reluctantly to be at last bestowed?
But, cost what it might, Violet never swerved from a duty, and her mind was clear that to permit Theodora to join the party alone without remonstrance, and without the knowledge of her parents, would be improper. She resolved not to confuse herself with fears and anxieties, and strove to dwell on whatever could steady or calm her mind for the undertaking. How wide a difference in moral courage there was between that tall grenadier and his timid delicate wife.
Arthur and Theodora were both down-stairs before her, and the latter was preparing breakfast, when there was a knock. ‘Percy!’ she thought. ‘He shall see how useless it is to interfere!’
‘Mr. Albert Moss!’
Arthur threw aside his newspaper, and held out his hand with a fair show of welcome. ‘Ha! Moss, how are you? Your sister will be down-stairs directly. Miss Martindale—’
Theodora was resolved against being supercilious, but Mr. Moss’s intention of shaking hands obliged her to assert her dignity by a princess-like inclination.
‘Good morning,’ said Albert. ‘I came to town yesterday—slept at my uncle’s—have this day in London—much occupied—thought myself sure of you at breakfast.’
‘I will tell Mrs. Martindale,’ said Theodora, glad to escape that she might freely uplift her eyes at his self-sufficiency, and let her pity for Arthur exhale safely on the stairs.
She met Violet, and was vexed at her start of joy, only consoling herself by thinking that she did not look as if she was his sister. Indeed, after the momentary instinct of gladness, came fears lest Arthur might not be pleased, and Theodora be annoyed; but the familiar home-like voice drove away all except pleasure as soon as she was certified that her husband’s brow was smooth. His presence was a restraint, keeping Albert on his best behaviour, so that there was nothing to disturb her present enjoyment of home tidings. That good-humour and ease of his were indeed valuable ingredients of comfort.
He asked Albert to dinner, and desired him to bring Uncle Christopher, if they chose to be entertained by the ladies alone, further offering him a seat in his cab as far as their roads lay together. Highly gratified, Albert proceeded to ask his sister whether she was able to execute a commission for Matilda, the matching of a piece of chenille. Violet readily undertook it, and he said, ‘he would explain the occasion on his return.’
When they were gone, the cares of the morning returned upon her, and by the time her household affairs were finished, all her pulses were throbbing at the prospect of the effort to which she was nerving herself. She ordered herself to be quiet, and lay down on the sofa, leaving the door open that Theodora might not go out without her knowledge.
‘It is my duty,’ repeated she to herself. ‘If I turn from it because it is so dreadful to me, I shall not take up my cross! If she will only listen and not be angry!’
Nearly an hour passed, the day seeming to grow warmer and more oppressive, and a nervous headache coming on. Poor Violet! she was still a frightened child, and when she saw Theodora coming down with her bonnet on, the fluttering of her heart made her call so feeble that Theodora supposed her ill, and came to her with kind solicitude that rendered it still harder to say what she knew would be taken as an affront.
With great difficulty she uttered the words, ‘I only wanted to speak to you about this expedition to Richmond.’
‘Well,’ said Theodora, smiling with what was meant for good-humour, but was only scorn, ‘you need not distress yourself, my dear, I am ready to hear.’
‘Would you get Mrs. Finch to ask Mrs. Bryanstone, and go with her?’ Violet could really speak at no more length.
‘It would be folly. Mrs. Bryanstone would be out of her element, and only a nuisance to herself and every one else. That will do. You have discharged your conscience.’
‘It is not myself alone,’ said Violet, sitting up, and gathering force to speak firmly and collectedly, but with her hand on her heart. ‘Your brother and I both think it is not right, nor what Lord and Lady Martindale would approve, that you should join this party without some one they know and like.’
You mistake, Violet. This is not like a ball. There is no absurd conventionality, tacking a spinster to a married woman.’
‘No, but since. Arthur cannot be with you, it is needful to take measures to prevent any awkwardness for you.’
‘Thank you. I’ll take care of that.’
‘Dear Theodora, I did not mean to vex you; but will you only put yourself in our place for one moment. Your father and mother let you stay here on the understanding that you go out with us, and when we cannot go, do you think we ought to see you put yourself under the escort of a person to whom we believe they would object?’
‘I have told you that I know what my own father and mother permit.’
Violet was silent, and pressed her hand on her brow, feeling as if all her prepared arguments and resolutions were chased away by the cool disregard which seemed to annihilate them even in her own eyes. By an effort, however, she cleared her mind, conjured back her steadiness, and spoke, preserving her voice with difficulty from being plaintive. ‘You may know what they permit you, but we owe them duties too. Theodora, if you will not take some one with you whom we know they would approve, we must write and ask what Lord Martindale would wish.’
‘Arthur will never write,’ said Theodora, in defiance; but the answer took her by surprise—‘If he does not, I shall.’
‘If there is to be such a rout, I will not go at all.’
‘Indeed I think it would be the best plan,’ said Violet, removing the hand that had been hiding the springing tears, to look up beseechingly, and see whether the project were resigned, and herself spared the letter which she well knew would be left to her lot.
But for those wistful eyes, Theodora would have felt caught in her own trap; for such speeches had often brought governess, mother, and even aunt, to humble entreaties that she would take her own course. She had to recollect her words before she perceived that she had yielded, and that she must abide by them. Anything was better than the humiliation of Violets sending home complaints of her conduct. She was greatly incensed; but a glance at the gentle, imploring face, and the hands trying in vain not to tremble with nervousness, could not but turn away her wrath. It was impossible to manifest displeasure; but to speak a word of concession seemed still more impossible. She impetuously threw off her bonnet, seized a pen, dashed off a few lines, and tossed the note and its envelope into Violet’s lap, saying, in her low voice of proud submission, ‘There! you will send it,’ and left the room. Violet read
‘MY DEAR GEORGINA,—My brother is engaged at Windsor, and I cannot join your party to Richmond.
‘Yours sincerely,
‘TH. A. MARTINDALE.
‘Mrs. Martindale is pretty well, thank you.’
Violet almost expected Theodora’s next note would announce her return home. She had been forced to give up all the affection so slowly gained, and to wound her proud sister-in-law where she was most sensitive. Should she hold Theodora to this renunciation, and send the note she had extorted, or should she once more ask whether this was in earnest, and beg her to reconsider the alternative?
But Violet was convinced that Theodora intended to hear no more about the matter, and that nothing would be such an offence as to be supposed to have acted hastily. She was afraid of renewing the subject, lest her weakness should lose her what she had gained. ‘Better,’ thought she, ‘that Theodora should think me presumptuous and troublesome than that she should mix herself up with these people, and, perhaps, displease Percy for ever. But, oh! if I could but have done it without vexing her, and to-day, too, when she has to bear with Albert.’
Violet felt that she must give way to her headache, trusting that when it had had its will it might allow her to be bright enough to make a fair show before Albert. She lay with closed eyes, her ear not missing one tick of the clock, nor one sound in the street, but without any distinct impression conveyed to her thoughts, which were wandering in the green spots in the park at Wrangerton, or in John’s descriptions of the coral reefs of the West Indies. The first interruption was Sarah’s bringing down the baby, whom she was forced to dismiss at once.
Again all was still, but the half slumber was soon interrupted, something cold and fragrant was laid on her brow, and, thinking Sarah would not be satisfied without attending to her, she murmured thanks, without opening her eyes. But the hand that changed the cool handkerchief was of softer texture; and, looking up, she saw Theodora bending over her, with the face so like Arthur’s, and making every demonstration of kindness and attention—drawing down blinds, administering sal volatile, and doing everything in her service.
Not that Theodora was in the least subdued. She was burning with resentment with every one—with Percy and his prejudice; with the gossiping world; with her friends for making this a trial of power; with Arthur for having put forward his poor young wife when it cost her so much. ‘He knew I should not have given way to him! Feebleness is a tyrant to the strong. It was like putting the women and children on the battlements of a besieged city. It was cowardly; unkind to her, unfair on me. She is a witch!’
But candour was obliged to acknowledge that it had not been feebleness that had been the conqueror. Violet had made no demonstration of going into fits; it had been her resolution, her strength, not her weakness, that had gained the victory. Chafe as Theodora might, she could not rid herself of the consciousness that the sister of that underbred attorney—that timid, delicate, soft, shrinking being, so much her junior—had dared to grapple with her fixed determination, and had gained an absolute conquest. ‘Tyrant!’ thought Theodora, ‘my own brother would have left me alone, but she has made him let her interfere. She means to govern us all, and the show of right she had here has overthrown me for once; but it shall not happen again.’
At this juncture Theodora discovered, from the sounds in the other room, how much Violet had suffered from her effort, and her compassion was instantly excited. ‘I must go and nurse her. She meant to do right, and I honour the real goodness. I am no petted child, to be cross because I have lost a pleasure.’
So she took exemplary care of Violet, read aloud, warded off noises, bribed the brass band at the other side of the square, went up to see why Johnnie was crying, carried up her luncheon, waited on her assiduously, and succeeded so well, that by the time the carriage came round, the head was in a condition to be mended by fresh air.
Mere driving out was one of Theodora’s aversions. If she did not ride, she had district visiting and schooling; but to-day she went with Violet, because she thought her unfit to be tired by Matilda’s commission. It proved no sinecure. The west-end workshops had not the right article; and, after trying them, Theodora pronounced that Violet must drive about in the hot streets no longer. One turn in the park, and she would set her down, and go herself into the city, if necessary, to match the pattern.
And this from Theodora, who detested fancy work, despised what she called ‘dabblers in silk and wool,’ and hated the sight of a Berlin shop!
Violet would not have allowed it; but Theodora threw her determination into the scale, resolved to make herself feel generous and forgiving, and not above taking any trouble to save Violet. So off she set, and was gone so long that Violet had a long rest, and came down-stairs, much revived, to welcome her brother.
Albert arrived alone. Uncle Christopher was engaged, and had charged him with his excuses, for which Violet was sorry, as he was an unpretending, sensible man, to whom she had trusted for keeping her brother in order; but Albert was of a different opinion. ‘No harm,’ he said. ‘It was very good-natured of Martindale, but he is a queer old chap, who might not go down so well in high life,’ and he surveyed his own elegant toilette.
‘We get on very well,’ said Violet, quietly.
‘Besides,’ added Albert, attempting bashfulness, ‘I have a piece of intelligence, which being slightly personal, I should prefer—you understand.’
Violet was prepared by her sister’s letters for the news that Albert was engaged to Miss Louisa Davis, very pretty, ‘highly accomplished,’ and an heiress, being the daughter of a considerable county banker—a match superior to what Albert could have expected. They had been engaged for the last fortnight, but he had not allowed his sisters to mention it, because he was coming to London, and wished to have the pleasure of himself communicating the intelligence. Violet was much flattered; she who used to be nobody to be thus selected! and she threw herself into all the home feelings. The wedding was fixed for the beginning of July, and this first made her remember the gulf between her and her family.
Seven o’clock was long past when Theodora entered, arrayed in rich blue silk and black lace, put on that Violet’s brother might see she meant to do him honour; and so Violet understood it, but saw that he was only contrasting it with her own quiet-coloured muslin.
Here ended Violet’s comfort. Albert was so much elated that she was afraid every moment of his doing something mal-a-propos. Theodora was resolved to be gracious, and make conversation, which so added to his self-satisfaction, that Violet’s work was to repress his familiarity. At dinner, she made Theodora take Arthur’s place, and called her Miss Martindale, otherwise she believed it would be Theodora the next moment with him, and thus she lost all appearance of ease. She was shy for her brother, and when he said anything she did not like, tried to colour it rightly; but she was weary and languid, and wanted spirit to control the conversation.
‘So, Violet, Fanshawe’s appointment was a pretty little bit of patronage of yours; but the ladies of Wrangerton will never forgive you. They were going to get up a subscription to give him a piece of plate.’
‘O, yes! and he desired them to send the money to the “Society for the Propagation of the Gospel,”’ said Violet. ‘Annette mentioned it.’
‘I suppose it depends on Mr. Martindale, whether he makes a good thing of it in Barbuda,’ said Albert; but the gov—’ at a dismayed look from her, he turned it into ‘My father is much obliged to you for getting him out of the way. The girls were so taken up with him one hardly knew whether something might not come of it; and really a poor curate—after the manner in which some of the family have connected themselves.’
The ladies were sorry for each other—one ashamed and one amused, neither venturing to look up, and Albert had no opportunity for the bow he intended for Miss Martindale.
‘By the bye,’ continued he, ‘who is this Fotheringham that was to settle with Fanshawe? I thought he was Lord Martindale’s solicitor; but my uncle knows nothing about him.’
Violet coloured crimson, and wished herself under the table; Theodora made violent efforts to keep from an explosion of laughing.
‘No,’ said Violet, rather indignantly; ‘he is—he is—he is—’ she faltered, not knowing how to describe one so nearly a relation, ‘a great friend of—’
Theodora having strangled the laugh, came to her rescue, and replied, with complete self-possession, ‘His sister, who died, was engaged to my eldest brother.’
‘Oh! I beg your pardon. You look on him as a sort of family connection. I suppose, then, he is one of the Fotheringhams of Worthbourne? Matilda fancied he was the literary man of that name; but that could not be.’
‘Why not?’ said Theodora, extremely diverted.
‘A poet, an author! I beg your pardon; but a lady alone could suppose one of that description could be employed in a practical matter. Is not it Shakespeare who speaks of the poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling? Eh, Violet? I shall never forget the gove—my father’s indignation when he detected your humble servant in the act of attempting a slight tribute to the Muses. I believe the old gentleman looked on my fate as sealed.’
‘Albert!’ said Violet, feeling as if she must stop his mouth, ‘you are quite mistaken. Mr. Fotheringham does belong to the family you mean, and he did write “The Track of the Crusaders”. He has been attached to the embassy in Turkey, and is waiting for another appointment.’ Then, looking at Theodora, ‘You never told me how far you went to-day.’
Theodora detailed her long pursuit of the chenille, and her successful discovery of it at last. Albert’s gratitude was extreme; his sister would be delighted and flattered, the work would receive an additional value in the eyes of all, and he might well say so, he was a party concerned, the material was for a waistcoat, to be worn on an occasion—but his sister would explain.
Violet thought he had exposed himself quite enough; and as dessert was on the table, she rose with as good a smile as she could, saying, ‘Very well, I’ll explain; you will find your way to the drawing-room,’ and retreated.
Theodora caressingly drew her arm into hers, much pleased with her, and accepting her as entirely Martindale, and not at all Moss. ‘What! is he going to be married in it?’
‘Yes, that is what he meant.’
‘I hope you are satisfied.’
‘O yes, I never saw her; but they are all very much pleased.’
‘Now tell me frankly, which do you like? Shall I leave you at peace with him, or will he think it rude in me?’
Violet decided in favour of Theodora’s absence till tea-time. Alone she had enjoyed Albert, but the toil of watching his manners was too much.
‘Then I’ll come down and make the tea.’
‘Thank you, dear Theodora. It is so kind. I hope it will not be very disagreeable. And one thing—could you tell him how well I really am, except for to-day’s headache, or he will go and take home another bad account of me.’
‘Your head is worse again. There, I’ll fetch some lavender, and do you lie still and rest it till he comes.’
He soon came.
‘Well, Miss Martindale is a fine young lady, upon my word. Real high blood and no mistake. And not so high in her manner after all, when one knows how to deal with her.’
‘She is very kind to me.’
‘And how long does she stay?’
‘O, for some time longer. Till August, most likely.’
‘Why, she will get the command of your house altogether.’
‘I am very glad to have her here.’
‘Ah!’ said Albert, looking confidential, ‘you do right to be prudent, but you may trust me, and I should be glad to know that it is more comfortable than last year.’
‘It never was otherwise,’ said Violet.
‘I hope so,’ said Albert; ‘I honour your prudence, and, after all, you have a handsome establishment,—capital dinners, good turnout. I only wish I could see you look in better spirits.’
Violet started forward and coloured. ‘Albert, don’t take up fancies. I am perfectly happy, and you must believe it. They all pet and spoil me with kindness. If you think me looking poorly to-day it is only from a headache, which Miss Martindale has been nursing so carefully and tenderly.’
‘Well, you cannot be too cautious if you are to stand well with the family. You do well to be on your guard. Martindale only the second son, and the elder may marry any day. That was one thing I thought I ought to speak to you about. You really should try to get some settlement made on you. You have nothing to depend upon, and, you see, you cannot expect anything from home.’
‘Do not talk about such things.’
‘You must not be childish, Violet; I am come as your best friend to give you advice. You ought to consider what would become of you if you were left with a family of young children, connected as you are. You depend entirely on one life, and you must not reckon on us, as you MUST see.’
‘I see,’ said Violet, only wanting him to cease.
‘Then you perceive I have your real interest in view when I tell you it is your duty to use what influence you have to get some provision made.’
‘Don’t go on, Albert. As my marriage was brought about, it would be improper in me to do anything of the kind.’
‘I only wished you to see what you have to trust to. Ah! by the bye, there’s the old aunt. Have not you expectations from her?’
‘No; she was so much offended at our marriage that there is no likelihood of her doing anything for us.’
‘Bless me! That’s a bad case! But you have been staying there. Can’t a pretty engaging thing like you manage to come round the old lady and get into her good graces?’
‘Albert! don’t talk so.’
‘Really, Violet, it is time to give up being a silly child. You ought not to throw away your true interests, or the time will come when you will be sorry, and remember what I said; but you are not to depend on me.’
‘No,’ said Violet, and scalding tears arose, ‘I do not. You need not be afraid. I have a brother who will take care of me and mine.’
‘John Martindale?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you know your own ground. I thought it my duty to warn you, and I hope you will take care to make the most of yourself—it will never do to let yourself seem of no importance, and be overcrowed by this haughty young lady.’
Violet nearly laughed, but the next speech was too much for her patience. ‘And you are satisfied at Martindale being so much from home?’
‘He must be while his regiment is at Windsor;’ and she rang for tea, and sent a message to summon Miss Martindale, feeling her presence her only protection.
Her head ached so much that she was obliged to lie on the sofa and let things take their chance, and Theodora’s attempt to represent her in good health only appeared like blindness and indifference. Albert was much enchanted with Miss Martindale, and made himself more ridiculous, until it was a great satisfaction to his sister to see him depart.
‘He always comes on unlucky days!’ she said. ‘I wish I could have made it go off better. Thank you for taking all the trouble.’
‘No trouble at all,’ said Theodora, kindly. ‘I am sorry you had so much to tire you in the morning. Now, come up to your room. I wish I could carry you, as Arthur does.’
She put her arm round her, helped her tenderly up the stairs, and came in several times to her room to see that she was comfortable. At the last good night, Violet whispered, ‘Dear Theodora, don’t think my sisters like this—’
‘I’ll judge them from you, my dear little sister.’
‘And you forgive me?’
‘To be sure I do. You did as you thought right.’ Strange to say, Theodora had more sympathy for Violet after this awkward evening.
In the middle of the following day, Violet and little Johnnie were together in the drawing-room, when Arthur came in, ‘Well, how are you? I am only here for two hours, but I wanted to know how you are getting on.’
‘Very well indeed, thank you.’
‘Theodora sticks to her flight of Finches, I suppose?’
‘She has been so kind! she has given it up.’
You don’t mean it. I thought she was ready to go through fire and water!’ cried Arthur, incredulously.
‘She has written to refuse.’
‘What, Percy brought her to reason?’
‘No, he has not been here, but I suppose his opinion influenced her.’
‘What in the name of wonder prevailed! I never saw her turn when once she had taken up a notion.’
‘I believe it was that I said you or I must write to her father, and ask what he wished.’
‘So that settled her! Ha! Well done! Theodora forced to give up her will, and by you! Well, that is the best thing I have heard a long time. My little Violet to have got the upper hand of Miss Martindale!’ and Arthur burst into such a fit of triumphant laughter as to quite discomfort Violet, but little Johnnie by her side on the sofa, catching the infection of merriment, gave, what was very unusual with him, a regular shout of baby fun, and went on laughing in ecstasy that set Arthur off on a fresh score. ‘So! young man, you think it very funny that mamma has been too much for Aunt Theodora?’
Theodora could not have chosen a more unlucky moment for walking into the room! However, it must remain uncertain whether she had heard. The visible consequence of the late air was exemplary attention to Violet’s comfort; and that doubt, so often balanced in her sister’s mind, whether she loved Percy, now inclined to the affirmative, for there was a concealed disquietude at his totally absenting himself from Cadogan-place. They did not see him again till the very day of the picnic, when, as they were driving in the park, the exclamation—‘There he is! broke from her, and then she leant back, vexed at having betrayed her joy.
He came to speak to them with such an open beaming look of gratification as Violet trusted was a recompense, but Theodora chose to keep an unmoved countenance; and it was only Violet’s happy congratulating face that assured him that all was right and the Richmond scheme resigned.
She asked him to dinner for that day, and he gladly accepted; but Theodora, considering it a sugar-plum to console her for staying at home, behaved as if it was a matter of indifference.
Violet took care to leave them alone, and she began the subject herself. ‘You find me here to-day, Percy, but it is no proof that I am convinced.’
‘It shows, as I hoped, that your good sense would prevail when left to itself.’
‘No, it was Violet.’
‘I honour her and you more than I ever did before.’
‘That’s your way,’ said Theodora, with the bright smile that was an act of oblivion for all her waywardness. ‘All you value is a slave with no will of her own.’
‘One who has a will, but knows how to resign it.’
‘That you may have the victory.’
‘No, but that you may be greater than he that taketh a city.’
Theodora raised her eyes much softened. She never liked Percy so well as when he made these direct attacks on her faults in general; when it came to a combat over the individual questions, it was a different matter.
‘I am very glad you have given this up,’ Percy proceeded. ‘It is a positive relief to my mind to find that you can yield. Do not be ashamed of it, it is the best thing you have done a long time.’
‘But, Percy, I did not do it on principle; I did it because Violet would have written to papa.’
‘There’s the true sort of spirit! Brave enough to confront even you for the right, yet yielding her own will and wish at the first moment. I think more highly of Mrs. Martindale the more I hear of her.’
‘And you wish me to be like her?’ said Theodora, watching for the blunt negative.
‘No, but to see you what you might and ought to be. It is repeating what I told you when this first began. You have a noble nature, but you will not check yourself, will not control your pride; you cannot bear any attempt to curb you. You are proud of it; but I tell you, Theodora, it is not high spirit, it is absolute sinful temper. If no one else will tell you so, I must.’
Theodora bent her head and cast down her eyes, not in sullenness, but in sorrow. ‘It is true,’ she murmured; ‘I see it sometimes, and it frightens me.’
‘I know,’ he said, much moved, ‘the sense of right must conquer; but, indeed, Theodora, it is time to begin, that it may not be some evil consequence that subdues you.’ He opened “The Baptistery” as it lay on the table, and pointed to the sentence—‘If thou refusest the cross sent thee by an angel, the devil will impose on thee a heavier weight.’
Theodora looked up in his face; the words were applied in a sense new to her. ‘Are humility and submission my cross?’ said she.
‘If you would only so regard them, you would find the secret of peace. If you would only tame yourself before trouble is sent to tame you! But there, I have said what I felt it my duty to say; let us dwell on it no longer.’
The large tears, however, fell so fast, that he could not bear to have caused them, and presently she said, ‘You are right, Percy, I am proud and violent. I have grown up fearfully untamed. No one ever checked me but you, and that is the reason I look up to you beyond all others.’
The lioness was subdued, and the rest of the evening there was a gentleness and sober tone about her that made her truly charming: and a softer sense of happiness was around her when she awoke the next morning, making her feel convinced that this was indeed the only real peace and gladness.
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